


More Than This

by concavepatterns



Series: Love and Great Buildings [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bottom Bucky Barnes, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Slow Burn, Steve is still Cap, Top Steve Rogers, brief descriptions of car accident/injury, but Bucky is a med student, moonlighting as an escort, tony stark: unknowingly awesome matchmaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 17:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9082387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concavepatterns/pseuds/concavepatterns
Summary: “Merry Christmas, Cap.”
Steve blinks down at the strip of red, white and blue Captain America condoms in his palm.--In which Steve tries to be a friend, fails hard, and finds something better anyway.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoodbyeBlues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodbyeBlues/gifts).



> For my awesome sister, who has a fondness for fics involving mermaids and escorts. Sadly I couldn't think of a way to combine the two, so I went with the latter. Merry Christmas! <3

 

Just when he thinks he’s finally got Tony Stark figured out, the guy goes and throws him through another goddamn loop.

“Merry Christmas, Cap.”

Steve blinks down at the strip of red, white and blue Captain America condoms in his palm, heat creeping into his face as he hastily shoves them back inside the decorative snowman-printed gift bag they’d been lurking in so unsuspectingly.

“Jesus, Tony,” he mutters, face growing even hotter when Stark only grins, tucking his hands into his pockets and looking far too gleeful at the sight of Steve’s utter mortification.

“Hey, gotta be safe while you’re getting your holly jollies.” Tony gives him a wink, claps him on the shoulder and walks away whistling, leaving a bewildered Steve to stand awkwardly in the middle of the hallway, still clutching his little snowman bag.

Yeah. He will never understand that guy.

 

 

It’s a little past ten when Steve shoulders open the door to his apartment, heading straight for the kitchen and dumping his ridiculous gift bag on the table before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

He downs half of it in one go before leaning back against the counter, loosening his tie with one hand. Embarrassing presents aside, it’d been a good night. What Tony lacked in the art of tactful gift giving, he more than made up for in the party planning department.   The man knew how to throw one hell of a holiday bash, Steve would give him that, and he had, somewhat surprisingly, enjoyed himself a lot more than he thought he would. 

Still though, it’s damn nice to be home. No matter how many showy galas and high-end fundraisers he’s got under his belt, Steve always feels a little out of place amongst those seas of immaculate tuxes,  chilled champagne and stiffly polite small talk; too big and awkward and tongue-tied to truly fit in.  Besides, his strengths have always lied more in taking action, not talking politics.

Taking one last swig of water, he shrugs out of his suit jacket, tossing it on the back of a kitchen chair before starting towards the bedroom.

And that’s when he hears it: a soft rustling noise, like the scrape of fabric against fabric, coming from the direction of the living room.

Shit.

Steve freezes in place, forcing himself to quiet his breathing as his brain kicks into overdrive, quickly working to formulate a plan.

His hands itch for the reassuring weight of his shield but it’s too far away - propped up beside his bed where he usually keeps it while he’s off duty - and to get there, he’d have to take a direct route past the living room. There’s no way he can make it in there without tipping off whoever’s waiting for him.

Circling back to the counter, he opts for selecting a medium-sized blade from the knife block; large enough to do some damage, but not so big that it’ll be hard to control in a close-quartered fight.

 It feels foreign in his hand but Steve pushes that uneasiness aside, tightening his grip on the handle. He’s never quite been comfortable arming himself with knives and guns, always instinctively leaning towards the defensive nonlethal route instead. Maybe it’s stupid to think that he can truly protect, Avenge, and be effective like that, but it eases his conscience a little. Helps him sleep better at night. And considering how rare sleep can be some days, Steve’ll take any extra bit of help he can get.

Knife in hand, he widens his stance, dropping into a more balanced fighting position before soundlessly creeping along the wall until he can see into the adjoining living room.

There’s a single, dark head of hair that’s just visible over the back of his sofa, along with one long arm hooked lazily over the armrest, the intruder’s whole body sprawled out easily like he thinks he owns the place, and Steve almost snorts at the image.

Definitely not an ambush, then.

He doesn’t lower his guard though. If anything, the way the guy’s just casually sitting there puts Steve even more on edge. So he holds his breath, bends his knees to drop a little lower, and crosses the room in three long, silent strides. In all, the whole maneuver only takes about three seconds before he’s got the edge of the knife pressed up against his intruder’s throat, forearm locked tight like a vice around the man’s chest to keep him trapped firmly in place.

What he _doesn’t_ expect is the way the guy reacts in the blink of an eye, one hand flying up to grip the end of the blade.

With his _bare hand_.

Steve automatically opens his mouth to say something (what, he doesn’t quite know yet) but then it registers: that hand is just as smooth and shiny as the steel it’s currently wrapped around.

It’s _metal_.

“Who are you,” Steve demands, keeping the blade steady despite the way his stomach’s churning, packed full of tangled knots of confusion and unease.

“Relax, pal.” The man flicks the knife away like it’s nothing more than an annoying fly, sending it skittering across the hardwood floor. Like Steve’s grasp on it had been loose and careless instead of inhumanly strong and steady. “Tony sent me. Well, hired me, actually.”

A dozen warning bells go off inside Steve’s head as the man wiggles out of his surprise-slackened grip, casually pushing himself up from the sofa, turning to face Steve directly, and oh god, what a face that is.

There’s no way to describe him but classically gorgeous; all lithe muscle and lightly tanned skin with loose, long-ish hair that just brushes his jaw. His expression is guarded but amused, eyebrows slightly arched and mouth curved up into a crooked half-smile as cool, ice-grey eyes flick over Steve from top to bottom. 

“To do what,” Steve asks tightly, crossing his arms over his chest and keeping one eye on the abandoned knife in case he needs to make a sudden dive for it.

The guy gives him a look like he’s just said something hilarious, privy to some inside joke that Steve isn’t, before he delivers a grinning, single-word answer of, “You.”

Suddenly, the contents of Steve’s snowman gift bag start to make a hell of a lot more sense.

Oh _god_.

Steve gives a pained groan, scrubbing a hand over his face as he feels himself begin to blush furiously. Fuck. He’s going to strangle Tony with one of his stupid patriotic condoms.

“You’re...?” He can’t even finish the question, tongue stumbling and cheeks heating another few hundred degrees as he starts to piece the whole puzzle together.

“Yours for the night,” the guy confirms smoothly, and then he fucking _winks_ , sticking out his flesh hand in greeting. “James Barnes.”

Steve, because his mother taught him manners and he’ll be damned before he ever disrespects her, automatically accepts the handshake before he can help himself.

The man’s grip is warm, fingers long and tanned and slightly calloused as they wrap around Steve’s in a way that makes him give a small, involuntary shiver. He wonders what the metal ones would feel like tangled with his own.

Squashing that thought, Steve clears his throat and quickly pulls his hand back, running it up through his hair in a way he can only hope looks natural, because it sure feels awkward as hell. He can still feel the faint, tingling heat of that touch imprinted onto his palm and it makes the ball of nerves in his stomach twist into a different kind of tension; one that has nothing to do with knives and threats and violence.

“I still don’t really understand,” he admits. “ _Why?_ ”

The guy – James – shrugs like it’s way simpler than Steve’s making it out to be. “Tony set me up with this,” he says, wiggling silver-plated fingers. “I owed him one. So now I’m here.”

Steve immediately pales.

Jesus fucking Christ. He isn’t just going to strangle Tony, he’s gonna kick his ass until he lands three states over.

“You – no, _no_. I can’t let-” Steve sputters out, horrified, “Jesus, you can’t pay him back with _sexual favours!_ ”

James laughs, tipping his head to the side as he studies Steve curiously, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Look, Steve – it’s Steve, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve confirms a little faintly, attention still mostly focused on that wide, too-appealing smile.

“It’s not like that. This ain’t my first day on the job, okay? I appreciate the concern though.” James’ smile slowly stretches out into a full-fledged smirk.

Slightly dizzy from that information, Steve wets his lips, throat gone dry.  “So you’re...?”

“An escort,” James confirms easily. “Well, med student, but a guy’s gotta pay his mountain of student debt somehow, right?”

“Um...sure?” Steve isn’t sure if that question requires an actual answer. Probably not because James just keeps on talking.

“It ain’t your super strength,” he says, nodding towards his arm, “but Stark figured it’d be a damn close match.”

“Close match?” Steve echoes, brows pulling together in confusion. He’d finally just about gotten his footing in this conversation and now he’s utterly lost again.

James takes a step closer, that crooked smile dancing on his lips as he murmurs, “You don’t haveta hold back with me, Steve.”

_Oh_.

Oh god.

Steve stops breathing, lungs seizing up like his asthma’s made a sudden, startling return.

“I can take whatever you wanna give,” James continues, taking another step forward until they’re toe to toe and Steve can practically feel the heat radiating off his chest through the soft, too-thin t-shirt he’s wearing, “and I can give whatever you wanna take, too. Do you want that, Steve?” He tilts his head again, dark hair falling across his eyes, and Steve has to clench his hands into fists before he’s tempted to reach out and brush back those disobedient strands. 

“Me telling you what to do,” James lowers his tone now, deliberately slow and smooth as wintery eyes flicks up to Steve’s, wide and inquisitive and falsely innocent, “how to move,” that voice, warm like honey-wrapped velvet, softens now until the last three words are barely more than a whisper, “when to come.”

_Fuck_.

Steve’s heart is hammering as he stares at that wide, red mouth, and he _wants_ – god, he wants in ways that makes him ache inside - and if he were to lean in just a little more, press them hip to hip, plunge one hand into that impossibly soft-looking hair and tilt James’ head back sharply, enough to make him moan-

Steve jerks away, stumbling back a step and almost tripping over his coffee table in the process.

“I’m – I’m not going to sleep with you,” he manages to get out, face hot and pulse beating erratically. God, he can only hope that James doesn’t look down, doesn’t see the very obvious evidence of just how much his body’s disagreeing with him.

To his relief (and a little disappointment, but Steve stubbornly refuses to acknowledge that part) James simply shrugs. “Your call, but I’m all paid up for the next few hours. Or, I mean, I could just leave now. If I’m making you too uncomfortable.” He frowns a little, looking contrite, and it only serves to makes the ache in Steve’s chest intensify.

Goddammit.

“No, it’s – it’s okay. Stay. Please. Do you, uh, maybe want to watch some TV?” Steve cringes as soon as the words are out of his mouth, fully prepared to be shot down or laughed at, but instead James’ expression melts into a warm little half-smile.

“Yeah,” he says softly, “sure.”

“I’ve been working through a list,” Steve explains once they’re settled in on the couch, desperately trying not to stare. The soft flicker of the TV screen is casting faint blue and pink reflections onto James’ face, accentuating the sharp line of his jaw, and Steve has to forcibly rip his eyes away from the sight. “Got some stuff to catch up on, after the ice and all. Is that okay? Cause we can watch something else if-”

“Steve,” James interrupts, lips quirked like he’s trying to fight off a smile. “It’s cool. Honestly. Let’s see that list, yeah?”

 

 

“God, I haven’t seen this show since I was a kid.” James slouches down comfortably, feet propped up on the coffee table and throw pillow tucked under one arm as he laughs at some funny one-liner onscreen.

They’ve made a good dent in Steve’s required viewing of Three’s Company, although the last two episodes are nothing but a total blank spot in his brain because that was around the point when James had first started leaning lazily to one side, shoulder pressing lightly against Steve’s own, and just like that, everything that wasn’t James-related ceased to exist.

“Do you, um, want a blanket or anything?” Steve asks belatedly, feeling like a bit of a tool for only now registering the fact that it’s the dead of December and the other man’s dressed in a little more than a startlingly transparent t-shirt. When he shifts a certain way, Steve can almost see the hard outline of his abs. Not that he’s been looking. Much.

“Nah,” James lolls his head to the right, grinning at Steve. “I run hot.”

Dear God.

Steve chokes on nothing, turning back to the TV and focusing his attention on it intently, hoping the softly-shadowed room is dark enough to hide his growing blush.

On screen, the audience is laughing as Chrissy does something dopey.

Steve can’t help but feel a certain kinship.

 

 

It’s a little after midnight when James pushes himself up from his comfy, slumped position next to Steve, stretching his arms up over his head before giving Steve a crooked, faintly apologetic smile as he says, “My time’s up.”

For a minute, Steve blinks at him dumbly.

Oh.

Right.

All this time he’s been on the clock; paid to be here.

How the hell did Steve almost forget?

“Let me, ah...walk you to the door?” He asks, internally cringing over the note of hopeful desperation in his voice.

“How about that, chivalry ain’t dead after all.” James grins as they cross the apartment, and all too soon he’s reaching for the doorknob, about to walk out of Steve’s life just as fast as he’d first tumbled into it.

Steve fights down the strange sense of panic rising in his stomach. _Get a fucking grip_ , he tells himself. One night of classic sitcoms isn’t going to magically change the fact that James is an escort, and that, in turn, makes Steve his client. He has no right to ask him to stay, and he’s not sure he can muster enough brash confidence to offer to pay him for an extra hour or two of his time. Besides, James probably has _real_ appointments to get to. Actual clients who plan on taking full advantage of his talents, who want to use and be used, to make him feel good in ways Steve never can.

It makes his stomach clench to think about it and Steve swallows down the tight, painful feeling in his throat, bracing one hand on the doorframe as James makes to leave, flashing Steve a small, parting smile over his shoulder.

“Hey, do you want a coat?” Steve blurts out suddenly, because fuck it, he’s not ready for him to go just yet.

James sways in the doorway, looking torn between coming and going until he finally shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

“It’s the middle of winter,” Steve counters, already moving to tug open the closet door, rooting around inside for something warm.

He finally settles on a slightly older, well-loved bomber jacket; dark brown in colour and lined with a warm, soft wool. It should be enough to fend off the worst of the wind at least.

James accepts the jacket but it’s clear he’s a little embarrassed from the way his eyes don’t seem to want to focus on Steve’s.  

“Thanks,” he says softly, slipping the coat on. It’s about a size too big, sleeves hanging a few inches past each wrist, and the sight makes something tighten in Steve’s stomach.

Jesus. What the hell is he _doing_?

“So, I should...” James jerks his chin in the direction of the door.

“Oh. Yeah.” Steve rubs the back of his neck, skin feeling unnaturally warm as he struggles to get a fucking grip on himself.

“ ‘kay, well, goodnight Steve.”

“Night James,” Steve murmurs back, mechanically turning to shut the door behind him because he can’t watch him leave. He can’t, he _can’t_ -

“Bucky.”

Steve’s head whips back around. “What?”

“Bucky,” James repeats, tucking his nose down into the collar of his – _Steve’s_ \- jacket. “ ‘S what my friends call me.”

And then he flashes Steve one last, tiny smile and disappears down the hall.

 

 

Two weeks creep by at an excruciating pace.

How can you know someone so little, and yet miss them so much?

Steve’s always liked the quiet stillness of his apartment -a refuge from how loud and packed and impersonal this present-day New York’s become - but now it feels too large and empty. The space is suffocating without Bucky’s warm weight settled on the sofa beside him, the silence deafening without that low, rich chuckle to compliment the constant loop of a laugh-track onscreen.

“Meet me for coffee,” Natasha says without preamble the minute Steve lifts his buzzing phone to his ear. “You’re turning into a hermit.”

“Hey, I get out,” Steve insists, frowning into the receiver as he leans one hip against the kitchen counter.

Natasha gives a very dignified snort. “Running and emergency trips to the grocery store don’t count.”

 Steve opens his mouth to argue, but, well...she might have a point.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she says dryly. “The Starbucks on 22nd, next to the dry cleaners. Be there in an hour.”

 

 

“I don’t know what to do,” Steve admits, rolling his empty coffee cup between his hands. “I think I want to see him again. I had fun, and I think he did too.”

Nat takes a slow sip of her latte, one eyebrow raising in a look that speaks volumes. Unfortunately for Steve, he’s never been all that fluent in the language of subtle facial expressions.

“What?” He frowns, squeezing his cup a little too hard until the paper gives and crumples like an accordion.

“He was only doing his job, Steve.”

“Wow, thanks,” he deadpans.

Nat rolls her eyes. “You know I don’t mean it like that. I’m sure he liked you just fine, I’m only saying he gets paid to charm people. Attract them. He might not be the friend you think he is.”

Steve shifts in his seat, stomach slowly plummeting as her words sink in. If there’s anyone’s judgement he trusts, it’s Natasha’s. This really isn’t boding well for his developing infatuation with one Bucky Barnes.

“You think I shouldn’t call him.”

"I think you should have realistic expectations,” Nat counters kindly.

“It’s weird, isn’t it. I’m making it weird. ” Steve sighs, slumping in his chair as he rubs the bridge of his nose. “I shouldn’t have to pay someone – an escort, at that – to be my friend.”

Natasha lifts her cup again, saying nothing.

“But that’s the thing,” Steve continues on, voice going up half an octave as he rapidly approaches Full Rant Mode, “I don’t _want_ just any friend. I want-” he cuts himself off suddenly when a few nearby heads turn to glance at him, working to dial his volume back down to an acceptable level before he confesses, more quietly, “I want him. As a friend.”

“Right,” Natasha says flatly, and okay, Steve can definitely read _that_ look.

“As a _friend_ , Nat,” he repeats.

Curling her fingers around her cup, Natasha shoots him a tiny, crooked smile as she shakes her head fondly. “You’re a terrible liar, Rogers.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You’re terrible at lying to yourself, too,” she adds. “Tell me, when was the last time you went out with someone? And please don’t say 1944.”

“Um.” Steve looks down at his crumpled cup, wishing he had more coffee to keep his mouth occupied long enough to save him from answering. “Technically Peggy and I never got to...”

“ _Steve_.” Natasha slips a hand over her eyes like she’s simultaneously amazed by his lack of sexual prowess and also not the slightest bit surprised.

“Well I was kind of busy crashing a plane in the Arctic,” he adds in defense, “so there’s that.”

“There’s that,” Nat agrees, taking one final sip of her drink before she pushes her chair back, gracefully rising to her feet.

Meeting over, apparently. Not that Steve’s ever minded Natasha’s blunt comings and goings. It’s actually a relief to have such an uncomplicated relationship with her; one of the few simple things he can truly navigate in this new life of his.

“Know what else I think?” Natasha continues conversationally, slipping her arms into the sleeves of her puffy black parka.

“What?” Steve asks, somewhat warily.

“I think I’ve never seen anyone get under your skin like this,” she replies, producing a white slip of paper from one of her pockets and sliding it across the length of the table.

Steve stares at the series of scrawled digits.

“Tony should really make his phone password less obvious,” is the only explanation Nat offers, following it up with an easy, one-shouldered shrug, like it’s no big deal to hack into Tony’s self-proclaimed impenetrable tech.

Voice temporarily abandoning him, Steve struggles to muster the words to thank her, still blinking down at the small scrap of paper. Ten little numbers, laid out for him like a terrifying, exhilarating gift.

By the time he looks back up, Nat has already started weaving her way past tables towards the exit, only pausing once to remind him quietly over her shoulder, “Be careful, Steve.”

 

 

Fifteen hundred dollars and one mildly embarrassing phone call later, Steve has a date.

Sort of.

A friendship date.

With a semi-professional escort.

God, he really is hopeless.

But Bucky’d said yes, so that has to count for something, right? _Or_ , a cynical little voice whispers in the back of Steve’s mind, it could just be the sudden influx of cash in his pocket that’s made Bucky so agreeable.

Steve frowns, pushing that thought aside.

Luckily there isn’t too much time for him to internally panic over his current situation. Bucky arrives right on time, and when Steve swings the door open, he’s pretty sure his eyes instantly grow three times their normal size.

Bucky grins at him, all warm and charming in that way that makes Steve’s heart do things that, before the serum, would probably be concerning enough to warrant a hospital visit.

He’s dressed in black track pants and a loose, grey NYU hoodie, cheeks flushed from the cold and hair coming loose from its wind-blown, haphazard bun.

It’s a complete one-eighty from the tight jeans and nearly see-through shirt he’d been wearing last time, and Steve’s chest instantly swells with the knowledge that Bucky felt comfortable enough to arrive like this, to do away with the polished, seductive mask of James and allow Steve a glimpse of the real Bucky underneath.

“Sorry,” Bucky says apologetically, shaking snowflakes out of his hair as he slips off Steve’s bomber jacket (he probably only means to return it, but Steve’s stomach still does an odd little flip over the fact that he chose to wear it at all). “Didn’t really have time to change. I’m on clinical rotations for the next four weeks and the shifts are killin’ me.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says, because honestly, it really, really is.

“Really doin’ wonders for the whole sexy image, huh?” Bucky jokes, shoving his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie as he lazily follows Steve into the living room.

“Yeah,” Steve replies dryly, “I was definitely going to sleep with you this time, but now the sweatpants have ruined it.”

For a minute Bucky simply looks at him, mouth dropping half-open in surprise. “Steven Theodore Rogers –”

“Not my middle name.”

“- did you just make a joke about _sex_?”

“If you have to ask, I must not’ve done it right,” Steve replies, resisting the urge to smile when Bucky immediately drops into what, in Steve’s mind, is quickly becoming his spot on the sofa, still staring up at him with something akin to fascinated wonder.

“You have a mouthy side,” Bucky says in awe, talking mainly to himself from what Steve can tell. “Fuck, this is amazing.”

At that, Steve can’t help but laugh as he sinks down into the empty space next to Bucky.

“So,” Bucky immediately shifts sideways to face him, face lighting up with that wide, brilliant grin, “how many people know that Captain America is actually a little shit?”

Steve breathes out a faint, somewhat embarrassed chuckle. “Hah. Very few. No one really wants to take the time to know the guy under the uniform. ”

“That’s a surprise,” Bucky replies, grin softening at the edges as his gaze flicks over Steve’s body, moving from mouth to chest before coming to rest on his eyes, “cause what’s under the uniform looks like it’s damn well worth knowing.”

Flustered by the compliment (and not sure whether that was meant to be innocent, suggestive, or a little bit of both), Steve awkwardly clears his throat, trying vainly to direct the conversation elsewhere before he does something stupid like tangle his fingers in that messy hair and kiss the smile straight off Bucky’s face. “So...med student, right?”

“Yeah.” Bucky lets him off the hook, graciously moving with the change of topic. “When it’s not literally consuming my soul, it’s a pretty good time.”

Steve laughs. “What got you on that path?” He asks, relaxing a little more now because this – talking work and passions and past experiences – is something he can probably handle without making too big of a fool of himself.

“Ah...” Bucky extracts a hand – the metal one – from where it’s still cocooned in the front pocket of his hoodie.

Steve’s stomach instantly fills with a heavy, shameful mass of regret.

Fuck. He really is a monumental idiot.

“ _Oh_. God, I’m sorry.” The words rush out in a jumbled, apologetic hurry. “Forget it, I’m –”

“No,” Bucky interrupts him, attention still focused downwards on his own fingers rather than at Steve. “It’s okay, I-” he pauses, takes a long breath in and out before murmuring, “I want to tell you.”

 About eight different emotions cycle through Steve all at once: surprise, lingering remorse, and a kind of touched, grateful honor at the fact that Bucky trusts him enough to share something that’s obviously so personal.

“Okay,” he says quietly, pressing his palms down on his thighs so he isn’t tempted to reach out, take Bucky’s hand or pull him into a tight, comforting hug. He has no idea where this protective streak’s come from, what it is about Bucky that affects him in ways he hasn’t felt since promising Peggy a dance. It’s scary, in that thrilling, new and unknown kind of way, and Steve has to forcibly stomp down on those instincts. _He isn’t yours_ , he reminds himself, words he’s had to repeat far too often for just one night. _You have no right_.

“I was twelve,” Bucky starts slowly, eyes finally coming back up to meet Steve’s, “and we had this shitty little blue Volvo.” He smiles a little, pushing out a sad, rusty laugh at the memory. “Can’t even remember where we were going. I just remember my parents being in the front and Becca, my little sister, was in the back with me. Some guy decided to make an illegal turn. Blew right through two lanes of traffic and t-boned us. Hard. He...when he hit us, it was on Becca’s side. I, uh, sort of threw myself over her. One of those automatic things, y’know? Acted before I even realized I’d moved.”

“God,” Steve breathes softly, barely getting the words out with the way his throat’s started closing up on him. “Is she..?”

“She was fine. _Is_ fine,” Bucky amends. “Had a minor concussion from the impact, but she walked away. Which is really all I coulda asked for, so.” He lifts one shoulder in a weak shrug. “I didn’t fare quite so well. My arm...I got pinned between the door and the seat. Broke pretty much every bone I had and the doctors, they couldn’t – there was too much damage. Nerves, blood vessels, everything was shot to shit. They couldn’t save it, not fast enough to keep me from bleeding out anyway. Fast forward about ten years, three surgeries and an assload of physio later, Tony Stark starts headhunting candidates for this bio-prosthesis program, and here I am.”

Steve stares at him, not knowing what to say. Words seem insufficient, like a band-aid on a gaping wound, and they can’t do justice to describe the rising swell of emotion in his chest either. “Jesus, Buck.”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s lips twist wryly.  “It’s pretty messed up.”

“No - well, yeah,” Steve awkwardly concedes, “but I mean, you were _twelve_.” He can’t imagine being thrust into such a frightening situation so young, bearing all that weight on such small shoulders.

Bucky’s eyes drop back down to his lap as he fiddles with the cuff of his hoodie. “Kids are resilient like that.”

“But - _god_ , just - you’re incredible,” Steve says honestly, not able to – not _wanting_ to - hide the admiration in his voice. Because it’s the goddamn truth. Because Bucky deserves to hear it. Because he might be falling just a little bit in love right now.

Bucky blushes – honest to god _blushes,_ right down to his throat – and wets his lips. “I got by. So to answer your original question, I guess I spent so much time in the hospital, it just kinda grew on me.”

Steve cracks a small, commiserate smile. “Yeah. I know a little about that.”

For a minute Bucky looks startled, but then his expression eases back into something more lighthearted, lifting the room’s sombre, grey mood until it’s sunny again. “Ah, right. I’ve read your biography, you know.”

“Oh.” Steve feels his face flush (Jesus, all he ever does is blush in front of this guy) and busies himself with finding the remote in order to avoid making eye contact. “Which one?”

 “Well, A History of the Howling Commandos was pretty much required reading in high school,” Bucky says thoughtfully, “so I’d gone over that one a couple times, but there wasn’t much in there about you – like the real you - the kid from Brooklyn, not just Cap. And that was kinda what intrigued me the most, so then I picked up Behind the Shield.” His expression goes a little softer, like he’s particularly fond of the memory. “God, I checked that book out of the library so many times, I half expected the librarian to finally just take pity and let me have it.” 

Steve chuckles. “I’m told that’s a good one.”

Bucky blinks at him, surprise written on his face. “You’ve never read it?”

Steve shrugs. “Don’t think I’m really all that interesting,” he admits.

Bucky doesn’t reply right away. In fact, he doesn’t reply at all, instead studying Steve wordlessly, grey eyes steady and soft with something Steve can’t quite decipher.

Just as it’s starting to make his palms sweat, the moment breaks and Bucky’s gaze shifts away as he clears his throat, that relaxed, easy smile soon tugging at his lips once again. “So, are we gonna start season two or what?”

 

 

Somewhere between episodes five and six, Bucky falls asleep, weight leaned comfortably against Steve’s side and head resting gently on his shoulder.

Steve’s arm has been cramping for about ten minutes now but he doesn’t dare move a muscle. Nothing short of the end of the world could get him to wake Bucky; not when he looks so peaceful with those dark lashes fanning over his cheeks, lips slightly parted as he breathes even and quiet.

The sight makes Steve’s heart beat a little faster, his lungs squeeze a little tighter, and for one wild, fleeting moment, he allows himself to imagine that this is real; that he could truly have this each and every night. Heartfelt conversations and aged sitcoms and warm, gentle smiles shared on a welcoming sofa that’s just big enough for two. And when Bucky would fall asleep on him, that Steve wouldn’t freeze up. Wouldn’t hesitate. Instead he would card fingers through that soft, dark hair. Would carry a sleeping Bucky off to bed. Maybe slide under the covers next to him, spoon up against his back and match that slow breathing, that steady, strong heartbeat, with his own-

Steve abruptly cuts off that train of thought.

It’s a dangerous fantasy and he knows it, but that doesn’t make it any easier to ignore the way his heart jumps at the domestic daydream playing in his head.

“Hey, Buck,” he eventually whispers, tone reluctant and a tiny bit hoarse from not speaking for so long.

Bucky doesn’t stir, instead breathing out a soft, sleep-laden sigh as he rubs his cheek against Steve’s shoulder.

Steve’s chest constricts and before he can stop himself he’s reaching out, carefully brushing some loose hair away from Bucky’s face. “Buck,” he repeats, a little more firmly now.

“Hmm,” Bucky hums, pushing his face into Steve’s hand like a cat, and Steve instantly stops breathing. In fact, he might never breathe again.

_Oh_.

And just like that, all of his carefully drawn lines, all the internal arguments and self-imposed sanctions spelling out exactly why this is such a bad idea are instantly drowned out by the feeling of Bucky nuzzling into his touch.

Heart caught in his throat, Steve’s hand moves of its own volition, tracing light fingertips over Bucky’s brow bone, down to his cheek, and across the line of his jaw, mapping out angles like he would if he were to draw him right now.

God, he really wants to draw him right now.

Finally, what feels like both a lifetime and a heartbeat later, Bucky sucks in a deep breath, coming to.

“Oh shit,” he croaks, voice gravelly with sleep as he sits up, dragging a hand over his face. “Sorry Stevie.”

“ ‘s okay.” Steve manages, sounding nearly just as rough despite having not slept a wink.

_Stevie_.

He really hopes Bucky can’t hear the way his pulse has gone absolutely haywire at the nickname.

“It’s...uh, time,” he says lamely, stomach sinking as he forces out the words. _Time for you to leave. Because none of this is real. Because I only paid you to be here till midnight. Because that’s how this strange, fragile thing between us works._

So he walks Bucky to the door again. Fights the urge to touch again. Smiles thin and fake and pleasant as he says goodbye, as a little piece of his heart cracks, again.

“Hey,” Bucky says when he’s half way out the door, voice pulling Steve from where he’s still lost in the depths of his own head. “You know, you can call me again. If you want. I don’t mind doing this. Kinda like it, in fact.”

That is, quite possibly, the best news Steve has ever heard in his entire ninety-nine years of existence.

“Yeah?” He asks, a small speck of hope fluttering to life in his chest.

Bucky smiles. “Yeah.”

 

 

_I can get by on my own_.

It’s a phrase he’s spoken a thousand times before, a belief that’s always been carved deep into his very core, a faith hardened by loss and stubborn will. But now...

Now, maybe he doesn’t have to anymore.

 

 

He’s so stuck on Bucky’s last words, it takes Steve a full ten minutes to realize that he left wearing the bomber jacket.

He spends another ten pondering that development.

 

 

From there, it isn’t long until Steve, to his combined delight and dismay, finds himself becoming a regular.

They pick Thursdays, because “Friday’s my day off, so I can stay over a little longer,” Bucky’d said, and Steve had been forced to use every ounce of his strength to try and control the sudden, quick jump of his pulse as he processed that statement, wondering if maybe...maybe Bucky wants this just as much as he does.

At some point when he doesn’t even realize it, 8 pm sitcom marathons turn into 6 pm pre-marathon dinners turn into ‘drop by whenever you’re ready’, which means that some afternoons, Steve will look up from where he’s chopping tomatoes or onions or carrots at the counter and find himself instinctively smiling, chest flooding warm with contentment at the sight of Bucky looking completely at home at the kitchen table, slouched forward in his seat and wholly engrossed in a thick medical textbook, occasionally glancing up to inform Steve of some tidbit he’d found particularly interesting (though Steve had been quick to implement a ‘no horrifying facts before dinner’ rule after Bucky had been going on about infected sores and Steve almost heaved a little as he tried to spread spoonfuls of ricotta cheese into their lasagna).

It’s really damn endearing though – mildly disturbing medical facts and all – and every time Bucky looks at him with that soft little quirk of his lips, sprawls out close to him on the couch or nudges him out of the way with one hip, insisting that he wash the dishes since Steve always cooked, every piece of Steve _aches_ to reach out and touch him, yearning with a painful, bittersweet kind of want.

He could ask, he knows. At some point just turn and say, ‘Hey, Buck. I think you should kiss me’.

And Bucky would. Because there’s fifteen hundred dollars in his pocket telling him to.

So Steve wants and wants and never asks.

 

 

January slides into a grey, blustery February and almost too easily Steve finds himself living for those Thursday evenings, existing as a shell of a person until Bucky breezes through his door, breathing air back into his lungs and filling his bleak little apartment with loud laughs and wide, warm smiles.  

So when a rogue HYDRA cell surfaces in Munich on a Wednesday afternoon, it’s really not ideal.

It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out, but they hadn’t counted on stumbling across a whole network of underground bases, so a one-day mission quickly turned into two then three then four, until they’d flushed out all the remaining HYDRA rats, dismantled their tech and catalogued all their intel.

It’s been six demanding, exhaustive days when Steve finally trudges into his apartment, sore and dirty and damn glad to be back.

He hadn’t bothered cleaning himself up at the tower, ditching his uniform but opting to bypass the showers and dodge Dr. Cho’s well-meaning attempts to poke and prod at his injuries in favour of making it home as quickly as possible.

He spends a long, long time in his own shower, scrubbing leftover sweat and blood and dust from his skin, hissing through clenched teeth when he tries to reach around to wash his back. He wouldn’t be surprised if a few ribs are cracked. Getting kicked into a brick wall tends to do that to a person, super serum or not.

When Steve finally emerges, absently rubbing a towel over still-damp hair, he goes in search of his missing phone, having dropped it somewhere he can’t quite remember, forgotten in the sudden, hectic rush following Tony’s emergency call all those days ago.

After a good ten minutes of searching, he unearths it from between two sofa cushions, tapping the screen and feeling his gut fill with dread when he finds ten texts and four missed calls. All from Bucky.

Shit.

He’d hurriedly cancelled their Thursday appointment before he left – he’s not _that_ much of an idiot - but apparently the lack of explanation and complete radio silence since then has been enough to put Bucky on edge.

Steve’s stomach plummets lower and lower, hovering somewhere down around his toes as he scrolls through the series of texts.

_Hey_.

_Missed you this week._

_You’re still free next Thurs, right?_

_Need my Three’s Company fix soon ;)_

_Steve?_

_Where are you?_

_Is it top secret Avenger business?_

_I’m probably not allowed to ask, am I. One of those ‘I’d tell you but then I’d have to kill you’ type things?_

_._

_._

_._

_Steve?_

_._

_._

_._

_Please let me know you’re okay._

Steve has to consciously work to loosen his grip on the phone before he cracks it.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

He pulls up a new message right away, typing with unsteady fingers: _I’m here now. I’m sorry._

His phone dings with a response barely a full minute later and Steve’s stomach tenses as he reads the reply.

                _Stay there._ _I’m coming over._

 

 

“What the actual _fuck_ , Steve.”

Bucky stalks through the door, bringing with him a whirlwind of cold winter air and a hard, unimpressed glare as he narrows eyes at the dark, purpling bruise under Steve’s left eye, the split skin over his opposite eyebrow, the way he’s got one arm cradled protectively over his torso.

“I’m sorry,” Steve offers, knowing it’s a piss-poor apology, but it’s clear from the look on Bucky’s face that any and all words are going to fall short right now. “I forgot about my phone and-”

“Shut up,” Bucky interrupts, shucking Steve’s coat and jamming it onto a hanger in the closet. “Where else are you hurt? Besides the obvious.”

Steve blinks, taken aback by the abruptness of the question. “Um...my ribs? But I’m fine, really. I heal fast.”

“ _I_ _know_ ,” Bucky says, exasperation seeping into his voice, “that’s the problem.”  He’s over at the sink now, scrubbing hands with soap and water, and suddenly Steve is struck with the crystal-clear understanding of what he’s seeing: this is Bucky in his element, firmly entrenched in medical professional mode. “If you don’t immediately set your fractures, you’re gonna have to re-break ‘em,” Bucky continues, leveling Steve with a stern look reminiscent of a parent scolding a toddler who really should’ve known better. “Do you want to have to break ‘em all over again?”

“No,” Steve answers quietly.

“Good.” Bucky finishes drying his hands before winding his way back over to where Steve’s standing. “Now let me see.”

Steve peels his shirt off, grimacing slightly when the stretch makes the ache in his ribs flare up like the slice of a hot, sharp knife.

“Christ,” Bucky murmurs, eyes roaming over him.

“It’s not that bad,” Steve insists, but his voice sounds unusually tight, laced with a faint edge of pain that’s audible even to his own ears.

Bucky glances up, both eyebrows lifting. “I’m not talking about the bruises.”

Ah.

Well then.

“Oh,” is all Steve can get out, fighting the sudden, intense urge to blush under Bucky’s scrutiny.

And at that, Bucky actually _groans_. “Of fucking course you blush all the way down to your damn pecs,” he mutters to himself, doing absolutely nothing to help Steve control the wash of pink spreading across his face, down his neck, and, evidently, over his chest.

“So what,” Steve says, priding himself on how steady he’s able to keep his voice, “is your official medical opinion, Dr. Barnes?”

Bucky snorts, reaching out to touch Steve’s side before glancing up at the last minute, seeking permission.

Steve nods.

“Well,” Bucky starts as a warm hand brushes over Steve’s ribcage, fingertips pressing in lightly, making his breath hitch in a way that has nothing to do with the pain, “aside from a terminal case of being a goddamned idiot, I’d say you have at least two cracked ribs. They really oughta be bandaged up,” he adds as an afterthought, “to hold everything in place. Since you heal so quick and all.”

“I have tensor bandages in the bathroom,” Steve replies. “I can-”

“ _You_ ,” Bucky cuts him off authoritatively, “can stay right here.  Hang on.”

He’s gone and back in under two minutes, just long enough to allow Steve a moment to calm his rapid heartbeat, coaxing it back down into a somewhat normal range. He’s not all that successful. He can still feel the after-effects of Bucky’s fingertips on his torso; like warm little ghosts gliding over his skin.

“Arms out,” Bucky orders as soon as he’s returned, so Steve lifts them up on either side, trying to stay still as Bucky starts wrapping him in snug lengths of bandage.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, heat rushing to his face again as Bucky steps right in close to his chest, crouching down a bit to secure the end of the bandage with small strips of medical tape.

“No problem,” Bucky murmurs back, and when he straightens up, binding complete, the position puts them eye to eye, chest to chest, with Bucky maybe just half an inch shorter than Steve.

It’s like the air suddenly shifts, thickening as something clicks into place and neither of them move, caught up in an unseen force that’s got them stuck, breathless and staring.

Eventually Bucky’s the first to act, doing nothing more than letting his mouth drop open, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip unconsciously, and Steve can’t stop the soft noise that escapes his own throat, low and pained and desperate.

Up close like this Bucky’s eyes are huge and black, pupils rimmed with the barest hint of that wintery-pale grey, and when Steve lets his gaze flick down to rest on his mouth, impossibly red and shimmery wet from the work of his tongue, he loses all resolve.

One hand raises on instinct, finding the side of Bucky’s neck, thumb stroking a soft line back and forth along his throat, and Bucky shudders under the touch, breathing out slow and shaky as his eyes slip closed.

God, Steve wants this.

He wants this more than he’s ever wanted anything, and just as he’s tilting his head, mouths hovering barely a breath away, Bucky’s phone makes its presence known with a loud, shrilling chirp.

They pull apart with jerky, awkward motions, stepping back and clearing throats.

“Shit, sorry. Forgot I left the ringer on.” Bucky grimaces, pulling the device from the back pocket of his jeans and quickly scanning the message, eyebrows pulled down into a thoughtful frown.

“It’s fine,” Steve says, feeling anything but, “I should...um...I’ve got stuff to do anyway. Mission debriefings and all that.”

Bucky’s mouth tips into a barely-there smile as his eyes flick up from the screen. “Right. Glamorous life of a superhero.”

“Ha. Yeah.” Steve tries to answer with a smile of his own, but it feels just as small and strained as Bucky’s.

 “So, uh, just try to keep the bandage on for another three or four hours,” Bucky instructs, slipping his phone back into his pocket before running fingers through his hair (not flesh, Steve notes , and god, does his body ever like the image that makes; a contrast of hard, shining metal passing fluidly through soft, dark strands).

He forces his attention away, swallowing. “I will. And thanks, again. I can, um, pay you for...” Steve makes an awkward gesture with his hand. “I mean, I didn’t mean to make you come all the way over here when it’s not even a Thursday or anything...”

The look on Bucky’s face makes him trail off slowly, unsurely, because it’s shifting into something that’s oddly blank and distant, mouth going tight and eyes impossible to read, like shutters closing, keeping Steve out.

And that’s when Steve realizes, too late and with a sinking sort of dread, he might have just made an irreparable mistake.

Bucky stares at him in total, utter silence for a full minute before finally declaring, “You’re a fucking moron.”

 

 

He thinks about friendship while he watches Bucky go - hands tucked up into the too-long sleeves of Steve’s old bomber jacket - and tries to tell himself that this is enough.

 

 

It’s not.

It’s not enough.

 

 

Steve cancels their next appointment, claiming he’s feeling sick, and really, it’s not all that far from the truth.

None of this is sitting right with him anymore. He’s unsettled in the worst sort of way; a stormy black sea of conflicting emotions churning violently in the depths of his stomach.

It’d started out innocently enough. Out of some innate, stubborn sense of compassion he’d thought he could offer Bucky something good, something he – something they _both_ – truly seemed to need. Company. Companionship. A reprieve with no expectations, no strings attached.

And he’d thought he could make it work. Was so goddamned sure of it, he almost wants to laugh at his own naivety.

But Natasha was right: he’s gotten himself in too deep. He should have kept his distance. Been more detached; more careful. Because now he’s gone and fallen in love with one of his best friends.

No, Steve reminds himself sharply, not even a friend. A man he’s been _paying_ to act like a friend.

God, could his life get any more complicated?

“It’s not complicated,” Sam says from the far end of the sofa, legs propped up on the coffee table and  huge bowl of popcorn balanced precariously in his lap as they watch some action movie Steve hasn’t been paying a single lick of attention to.  “Just ask him if he wants to go out sometime. As, y’know, non-monetarily compensated, contractually obligated friends.”

Steve gives him a dry, withering look. “Sure. Just like how you’re going to ask Nat out soon?”

Sam considers him for a moment before saluting Steve with a tilt of his half-empty beer bottle. “Touché.”

He wasn’t expecting to be agreed with so readily and the surprise is enough to rustle a sudden, startled laugh out of Steve.

“What?” Sam says defensively. “Man, she could hand all of us our asses before breakfast. Yeah I wanna take her out, but I’ve also got a damn healthy fear of her.”

“She’d be happy to hear that.” Steve smiles down at his own bottle, thumbnail picking absently at the label.  The alcohol doesn’t have any effect on him of course, but hey, a guy can dream.

“For real though,” Sam says, voice taking on a more serious tone now. “Call him. If you don’t get all your shit out there in the open, it’s never gonna stop eating you up inside.”

“I know.” Steve gives a pained groan, rubbing a hand over his hair. “It’s just...I think I messed up. The last time he came over – after Germany – he basically chewed me out for being reckless-”

Sam snorts. “What else is new.”

“- and patched me up, but afterwards I kind of...um, offered to pay him for it,” Steve finishes sheepishly.

Sam nearly upsets his popcorn bowl. “Steve - the hell, man?!”

Steve grimaces, hand dropping from his hair to scrub over his face. “Yeah, yeah. I’m an idiot.”

“Damn right you are. _Call. Him_ ,” Sam repeats, sounding even more certain of his advice this time around. “And you were gonna pay him,” he mutters under his breath, huffing as he turns his attention back to the movie, “Jesus Christ on a damn bike.”

 

 

Steve, because he isn’t always as brave as his alter ego suggests, chickens out and sends a text message instead.

Twenty anxious minutes later, Bucky answers with a simple _ok_.

It’s something, Steve tells the nervous little tremor in his heart. It’s something.

 

 

They sit at the kitchen table. Neutral territory, not marked with nearly as many memories at Steve’s well-worn sofa cushions.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says right off the bat. “What I said was really goddamn stupid. I never wanted to offend you, or insinuate that you don’t care about me – that we can’t be friends without money being involved - I just...it’s getting really hard to keep myself from crossing certain lines.”

“Lines,” Bucky echoes, leaning his elbows on the table, tone even and face still guarded; for the most part unreadable.  He looks tired though - that much Steve can tell - and it makes his chest ache to see Bucky look anything other than vibrant and happy. Steve knows he’s the cause of it too, and that only serves to give that ache a new sharper, shame-filled edge. “Lines you made for yourself,” Bucky asks, “or lines you think already existed?”

Steve has to think on that for a minute. “Both,” he decides. “I knew there were certain boundaries that came with your job, but...I put a lot of them in place myself, I think. Because I pulled you into this with the expectation of being friends, and _god_ \- I can’t - if I’d ever stepped over that line, taken advantage of you...” He trails off, unable to finish as the thought makes his stomach roll. Fuck, the guilt of that would eat him alive.

Something like annoyance flits across Bucky’s face. “First of all, you didn’t ‘pull me’ into anything, so fuck that. I kept coming back because I wanted to.”

“But-”

“No. Stop being a fuckin’ martyr for two seconds and listen to me,” Bucky says, far more gently than Steve’s sure he deserves. “Whatever awful shit you think you’ve done, you’re wrong, okay? You’ve...you’ve been nothing but great, Steve. Really.”

“Dunno about that,” Steve says quietly, guilt still alive and well in the pit of his stomach, “I was a pretty shitty friend to you last week.”

A barely-there smile lifts the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “Is that still what you want?” He asks. “To be friends?”

Steve frowns in consideration, dragging a hand over his hair and making it stick up at odd angles. “It’s what I thought I wanted,” he admits. “It’s what I _tried_ to want. Now...” he pulls in a breath, voice cracking a little as he struggles to translate that heavy, aching longing into words, “now I don’t – it’s killing me, Buck - I can’t –”

“Hey,” Bucky interrupts, voice still soft and gentle in a way that makes Steve want to curl into his arms and crumble; let the weight of his title, his conscious, all those heavy obligations, slide from his shoulders and stay there until he finally feels strong enough to pick it all back up again. “Can I tell you something?”

Steve meets his gaze, some of the hard tension in his shoulders gradually relaxing when he sees the flare of warmth kindling in those ice-pale eyes. “Of course. Always.”

Bucky hesitates for a brief flicker of a second before admitting, “I stopped taking clients weeks ago.”

Of all the things Steve expects to hear, that definitely isn’t one of them.

His mouth goes dry and he wets his lips, forcing out a slightly rough query of, “What?”

“I applied for a grant a couple months back,” Bucky explains, eyes dropping away as he traces wood-grained patterns on the table top with one metal fingertip. “There’s this scholarship thing for students with disabilities – a fund set up through Stark’s prosthesis program. I got the letter a week before you left to go get your fucking ribs smashed in.” He glances up at that - slightly teasing but mostly serious - and Steve winces apologetically in response. “The money came through, and it was enough to cover the rest of my student loan.”

“That’s... that’s good,” Steve says a bit dumbly, trying to remember to breathe as the beat of his pulse starts echoing loud and quick in his ears.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s lips quirk into a tiny, cautious smile. “I was really only doin’ the whole side-gig for the extra cash anyway, and since that wasn’t an issue any more, I decided to...retire, I guess. Besides, my course load’s really picking up this semester, so it made sense. Lets me focus more on school ‘n shit. Well - that and,” he flushes a bit, nearly sounding shy as he adds, “I didn’t really want to be with anyone else.”

Heart leaping into his throat, Steve can only stare at him, hopeful and afraid and so fucking in love that it hurts. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bucky shifts in his seat, clearly embarrassed, but he answers truthfully anyway. “Because I wanted to keep seeing you and...fuck, I was scared. I was scared that it would change things and I didn’t want to freak you out or push you away. I didn’t want to fuck it up. This. Us. Whatever the hell we were doing. So I told myself I didn’t need anything more than that, cause seeing you as a client - a friend - was better than not seeing you at all.”

Emotion climbs up into the back of Steve’s throat, thick and overwhelming, and for an instant he feels a slightly giddy, hysterical desire to laugh and cry all at once because _god_ , wasn’t that exactly his dilemma too?

“So,” he eventually manages to croak out, “you...?”

“I like you, Steve,” Bucky confirms with a somewhat exasperated roll of his eyes, but Steve can see – can _feel –_ the warm affection lacing that action. “I like you a whole fuckin’ lot, okay?”

If it’s at all possible for a heart to burst from too much happiness, then Steve feels like he’s about to be one for the record books. Patient zero. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d be considered a medical anomaly anyway.

“Okay.” He’s grinning so widely his face may split in two. “More than okay. Because I think I like you a whole fucking lot too.”

“Okay.” Bucky’s teeth are digging into his bottom lip, trying to gain control over his own growing smile.

“Okay,” Steve repeats, and they sit there, staring at each other with an elated, smitten sort of stupidity until he suggests, straight-faced and deliberately casual, “So. Three’s Company?”

“I swear to fuckin’ God, Steve,” Bucky starts to threaten, but he’s already laughing as he rounds the table, grinning hugely, pulling Steve out of his chair and-

Steve’s brain whites out as Bucky tugs him in by the hips, kissing him long and deep with still-smiling lips, and somehow...somehow it’s even better than he’d imagined.

Bucky’s mouth is warm and earnest against his own, matching each little tilt of Steve’s head, every soft swipe of tongue and teasing press of teeth with an effortless, natural ease, like they were made to do this together. For all Steve knows, maybe they were.

He leans into it - eager for anything and everything Bucky is willing to give - and feels a metal arm come up to lock tight around his back, forcing him in until their hips are flush and now - _god, yes_ \- now Steve wholeheartedly understands the appeal of being so closely matched in strength, balanced enough for Bucky to restrain him, hold him, pin him down. It’s enough to make Steve dizzy with possibility.

“Don’t wanna wait anymore,” he pants, forehead pressed to Bucky’s as Bucky starts a continuous slow, filthy roll of his hips, letting Steve feel exactly how much he wants this too.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes out, kissing him again, fast and hard. “Yeah. God yeah.”

The trip to the bedroom is more clumsy, distracted stumbling than actual walking; hands and mouths too starved to be apart for more than even a few short moments, and when Bucky shoves him down onto the bed, Steve finds himself struggling to breathe through the sudden spike of raw, overwhelming want that floods his body.

The minute Bucky straddles him Steve retaliates, flipping him onto his back and crushing their mouths together in a kiss that’s more challenge than tenderness, but judging from the wrecked noise Bucky makes, the way he’s kissing back with bruising enthusiasm, he is, apparently, very much okay with that.

“Gotta get you naked,” Bucky’s murmuring against his lips, hands tugging at slightly rumpled clothing - maybe Steve’s, maybe his own - Steve’s too busy being kissed within an inch of his life to bother looking down to check, “gotta get my mouth on you, fuckin’ everywhere.”

“God, Buck.” Steve groans, pulling him back in for another kiss that’s long and thorough, growing softer and less hurried as time goes on, like they could be content to simply live inside of it, sharing quiet gasps and ragged breaths until no air is left at all.

In theory it sounds nice; sweet and intimate. In reality, Steve has been aching for this moment since he first laid eyes on Bucky. There’ll be time for slow, drawn-out explorations later. Right now, he has _plans_.

Snaking one hand between their bodies, he presses a palm to the hard bulge straining at the front of Bucky’s pants.

Bucky gasps into his mouth. “Christ – _Steve_.”

Steve grins, breathless and so turned on by the picture this flushed, dark-eyed Bucky makes underneath him, it feels like his whole body’s on fire, thrumming with need.

Making a desperate little noise, Bucky hooks his leg around Steve’s thigh and rolls him onto his back again, stealing another hot, deep kiss before he finishes peeling off Steve’s shirt and pants, mouth slowly descending as he sucks a patch over Steve’s left pectoral, his ribs, then across his hip before stopping to look back up the length of Steve’s body.

“God, Stevie, you’re gorgeous,” he breathes. “So fuckin’ beautiful like this. Want to keep you here forever, make you come till you can’t even think straight...”

Steve’s mouth drops open, partly to reply, partly just entranced by the picture Bucky makes grinning filthily over his erection like that, but he never does get the chance to answer because Bucky’s already leaning back in, nuzzling his face against Steve’s thigh, licking a hot line across his pelvic muscle but purposely leaving Steve untouched where he needs it the most; teasing until Steve’s squirming under him, breathing hard, cock flushed and straining and oh god, oh god, _oh god_.

Steve chokes on a moan, one hand flying down to Bucky’s shoulder, the other locked up over his head, fingers clenched tight in the pillow behind him, desperate for an anchor.  “C’mon,” he pleads, voice so wrung-out and needy, for a minute he barely even recognizes it, “c’mon, Buck. Please. I need - _ah_ \- please-”

It’s so much, too much, and yet somehow not enough. He needs more, needs to touch and be touched and breathe in every inch of Bucky until he’s sinking under Steve’s skin. A permanent, intimate fixture of warm eyes and teasing, crooked grins.

“I know,” Bucky murmurs soothingly, smoothing his metal palm down Steve’s hip before his fingers dig into the skin, just sharp enough to make Steve jerk under him with a broken groan as pain collides with pleasure. “Wanna feel you,” he says, slow and smooth, so low-pitched it makes Steve shiver.  Braced on his palms, he leans back up over Steve again, head dropping to mouth at the side of Steve’s jaw. “Want you to fill me up,” he continues lowly, breath hot as he nips at Steve’s earlobe, “make me come on your cock.”

The noise Steve makes is akin to a dying groan. Picturing himself working Bucky open, easing in until he’s buried snug, fucking him hard and deep as he moans into Steve’s ear...

God, he wants that. He wants that a whole fucking lot. “Yeah,” Steve chokes out. “Oh my god, yes. _Yes_. _Bucky_ -”

They strip the remainder of each others clothing quickly, pausing only to press warm, fleeting kisses to each newly exposed stretch of skin, and when Bucky finally lowers his weight back down, pure, unrestricted skin on skin now, it’s so good Steve has to clench his jaw and fight for a minute to regain control before he comes from this alone.

Bucky wasn’t lying when he said he runs hot; his skin’s impossibly warm against Steve’s, hard and smooth and strongly muscled in a way that makes Steve feel small again to be tucked under that heavy, reassuring weight. It’s a comfort he never knew he needed quite so badly.

Craning his neck, he starts mouthing a line down Bucky’s throat, across the top of this shoulder, and over the thicker mass of pink scarred skin where flesh meets metal, letting his lips linger there in silent affection, admiration, and when he looks back up, Bucky’s eyes are softer, shiny and full of their own unspoken sentiment.

“Christ, the things I wanna do to you,” Bucky murmurs, pressing feather-light kisses to Steve’s temple, cheek, and finally his mouth.

Steve groans into the kiss, lips parting as he tries to deepen it, encouraging Bucky bring his tongue into play, but instead Bucky draws back, breathing hard and grinning like sin personified.

“Been wondering if you taste as good as you look,” he whispers, and then he slides his way back down the plane of Steve’s stomach, fingers coming to curl around the base of his cock before he’s bowing down with parted lips, swallowing Steve to the root, and it’s what can only be described, Steve thinks hazily before his brain quits working altogether, as a goddamn religious experience. 

Raw sparks of pleasure go off like a chain reaction down his spine and Steve moans, loud enough to probably be embarrassing, only he’s too far gone to care.

Bucky’s mouth is obscenely hot, wet and amazingly tight as he keeps his lips closed firmly around the thickness of Steve’s cock, head rhythmically bobbing up and down, fucking him at a steady but unhurried pace.

“Oh god,” Steve struggles to form words, lost in an intoxicating wave of warmth and sensation, “Bucky – fuck, your _mouth_ -”

Bucky makes a soft noise in response, the vibrations causing Steve to groan and arch, one hand blindly reaching down to fist in Bucky’s hair, gripping just tight enough for Bucky to repeat that pleased little noise, easing his way up to swirl his tongue around the head before swallowing Steve all the way back down again.

_Jesus_. Steve’s too fucking close already, and when Bucky hollows his cheeks, sucking hard as he pulls back up, whatever semblance of control Steve thought he still had left instantly flies out the window as he comes with a low, moaning shudder.

Bucky doesn’t let up, instead humming deep in his throat as Steve spills into his mouth, and then Steve makes the wonderful mistake of lifting his head enough to watch, and _oh_. That’s a visual his body really, really likes.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, feeling his cock throb heavily again, and when the smooth, plush heat of Bucky’s bottom lip grazes the sensitive underside of the head, his eyes slam shut as everything goes beautifully fuzzy and distant, and later Steve will wonder whether he might’ve actually passed out for a couple of seconds.

He surfaces to the feeling of Bucky’s tongue, laving brief, light licks over his still-hard length, cleaning him up and bringing him back down gently.

Steve, still panting and half-dazed with orgasmic awe but damn well ready to reciprocate, immediately pulls him back up, crashing their mouths together.

Bucky tastes like burning heat, obscenely wet with a slightly bitter edge that Steve knows is _himself_ , and that only fuels the smoldering fire in his bloodstream. There’s an itch building under his skin, a persistent chant of _more, more, more_.  He needs to come again; one orgasm is barely enough to take the edge off. It’s an unusual side-effect of the serum, practically obliterating his refractory period, and while Steve’s never been all that fond of that little biological quirk before, now he’s pretty damn grateful for it.

“Buck,” he pants, sounding just as desperate as he feels, eyes roving over Bucky, taking in that red, wet mouth, the way his hair’s already a soft, sex-tangled mess from the work of Steve’s hands. He is, without a doubt, the most gorgeous thing Steve’s ever seen. “Please. God, I need more - need _you_ -”

“Fuck, look at you,” Bucky breathes in awe, staring at Steve with big, dark eyes. “How many times in a row can you come?”

Steve blushes a little at the question, though he can’t actually bring himself to feel any sort of shame over the fact that he just got off in 30 seconds flat and is more than ready to do it again. Not when Bucky’s looking at him like that. “Don’t know,” he admits.

“We’re gonna figure that out,” Bucky promises. “Later. Cause if you’re not buried in my ass in the next two minutes, I’m gonna die.”

“Oh my god.” If Steve wasn’t blushing before, he absolutely is now.

Bucky makes a warm noise of approval, mouth curving up with satisfaction. “Fuckin’ love the way you blush all over,” he murmurs, leaning in for another softer, lingering kiss. “You have stuff in the drawer?”

“Yeah.” It takes Steve two tries to get the word out, momentarily mesmerized by the smooth flex of muscle in Bucky’s back as he rolls to the side of the bed and sits up, digging through Steve’s night table and then coming to a sudden, abrupt stop; frozen with surprise before laughing out loud a second later.

Steve curses himself, already knowing exactly what he’s found.

“ _Steve_.” Bucky twists back around to face him, letting the strip of Captain America condoms dangle between his thumb and index finger as he grins with complete and utter delight. “What the fuck are these?”

Steve gives a long-suffering groan. “I didn’t buy them!” He insists. “It was a gift.”

The look on Bucky’s face is a mixture of fond and teasingly skeptical. “Sure, Stevie.”

“I _didn’t_ ,” he repeats, trying to keep his tone stern, but it’s nearly impossible with the way he’s started returning Bucky’s ridiculous grin. “Now shut up and get over here.”

“God you’re fuckin’ bossy,” Bucky notes, but it sounds like the exact opposite of a complaint as he shifts to stretch out over Steve again, aligning their bodies chest to chest and hip to hip, but when he props himself up on one elbow to flick open the newly-acquired bottle of lube, Steve shakes his head.

“Let me,” he requests, tone sure despite the flood of slightly embarrassed heat rising to his cheeks. “Please?”

 Bucky groans, dropping to hide his face in Steve’s neck for a moment.  “ _Christ_ ,” he bites out, slightly muffled against Steve’s skin, “you really are gonna kill me.”

Steve doesn’t really know what to say to that so he opts for taking action instead, kissing Bucky some more as he nudges him over onto his back, crawling over him and pausing for a second to take in the dark shine of arousal in Bucky’ eyes, the way his chest is rapidly rising and falling in anticipation of what’s to come.  He looks like every one of Steve’s wildest innermost fantasies come to life.

Breathing out a shaky breath, he reaches for the lube, squeezing out a generous amount before wasting no time skimming slicked, slightly cool fingers down the crease of Bucky’s ass, making him gasp.

“This what you want?” Steve murmurs against his jaw, the tip of his index finger now circling the rim, teasing and seeking permission all at once.

“Yeah,” Bucky answers thickly, hips lifting involuntarily as he takes a rough swallow. “C’mon.”

“ _God_ ,” Steve breathes with reverence, lips still pressed hotly to Bucky’s skin, and then he’s slowly working that finger in, making Bucky pull in a sharp, hitching breath.

“Jesus, yeah. That’s good, that’s...fuck.” Bucky turns his head to kiss him fiercely, all nipping teeth and tongue, and Steve answers the impatient roll of his hips by adding a second finger, then eventually a third, until Bucky is panting and visibly, achingly hard.

“C’mon,” Bucky urges again, sounding on the verge of begging until Steve finally leans up on one elbow, smiling a little as he snags one of those ridiculous star-spangled condoms, then there’s blunt, warm pressure, a slow, _slow_ press in, and one of them – maybe both – moan loud at the feeling.

“Oh god - _Steve._ ” Bucky surges up, bringing their mouths together in a hard, hungry kiss. The angle is sharp so it’s rough and clumsy, an awkward meeting of eager teeth and tongue, but it’s still pretty damn perfect, Steve thinks. 

“Yeah,” he agrees breathlessly once they part, mouths hovering only inches away from each other, reluctant to move too far out of range. “ _Fuck_.”

Bucky gives a slight chuckle at that, the sound rough and faintly thin like all the air’s been punched out of his lungs, and then he _moves,_ and oxygen is quick to make an abrupt departure for Steve too.

They’re not gentle and it’s _perfect_. Steve eases back almost all the way before driving back in with a sharp snap of his hips, hard enough that Bucky has to brace himself with a metal palm flat on the headboard behind him, mouth dropping open, gasping for air.

God, he’s so smooth and hot and deliriously tight, each thrust lights up all of Steve’s nerve endings like a bright, hot spark of electricity fizzling down his spine. Barely holding back a groan, he repeats the motion again, asking unsteadily, “That good?”

“ _Yes_ , holy fuck, yes,” Bucky encourages with a drawn-out, appreciative groan of his own. “Don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Steve promises, jaw going tight with pleasure when Bucky shifts to hook one leg then the other up over Steve’s shoulders, making for a sharper, deeper angle that has him swearing loudly and colourfully with Steve’s next thrust in.  

“ _Jesus_ _fucking_ – ah, god, feels so good,” Bucky pants out, “you have no fuckin’ idea.”

“Think I do,” Steve manages before leaning more weight over him, forcing Bucky’s legs to press back a little more until he’s nearly bent in half, and Steve loses the ability to form words altogether as each firm roll of hips brings a new kind of pleasure that’s clear and fierce and all-consuming in its intensity.

He loses himself in it, falling deep into an unrelenting pace that has him gasping out hoarse, half-broken noises as fucks roughly into Bucky again and again, weight balanced on his forearm as he brings the opposite hand down to slip between their bodies.

“So perfect,” he breathes, fingers curving warmly around the base of Bucky’s cock, “god, you feel so fucking good.”

Bucky moans, mouth open as he breathes soft, low noises of pleasure against Steve’s throat, and each breathy sound sinks into Steve’s skin like soft little hooks, pulling him up higher and higher until he’s weightless and panting and nothing exists but Bucky’s voice in his ear, the intense heat of his skin, the heavy, full weight of his cock in Steve’s hand.

He opens his mouth but words are still floating out of reach so he settles for nosing behind Bucky’s ear, dropping hot, open-mouthed kisses before biting at the skin where Bucky’s pulse is beating wildly.

Bucky makes a guttural noise, hips jerking up at the sharp, brief press of pain. “Jesus,” his voice drops an octave as he murmurs a stream of filthy praise, “feels so – _oh_ , _fuck_ \- so goddamn good, Stevie. More, want more – _god_ \- wanna feel you in my ass for _days_...”

Fucking hell.

Steve has to clench his jaw, has to try to ground himself for a moment, because that voice - all low, rough sex - is making it really damn hard to hang on.

“Buck,” he groans in warning, tensing when Bucky purposely clenches down around him, spurring Steve to speed up the pace of the hand that’s wrapped tight around his cock, hard as iron and flushed deep red as Steve presses the pad of his thumb to the steadily leaking slit, rubbing in firm, unrelenting circles.

“So close,” Bucky’s gasping now, voice thick and choked as he wavers on the edge, “god, Steve, ‘m so close...”

“That’s it,” Steve murmurs encouragingly, leaning in until he’s almost nose to nose with Bucky, mouth hovering close enough to kiss. “You gonna come for me?”

Bucky’s hips jerk again and he inhales, quick and sharp. “ _Fuck_ , Steve - yeah. Yeah, I can’t - ”

In response Steve closes the remaining space between them, slotting their mouths together, swallowing Bucky’s groan as he comes, and the _noise_ he makes, a half-broken cry of pleasure torn from low in his throat...god, it stirs up Steve’s insides with a deep, heady warmth he’s never felt before.

“God, Buck.” He can feel Bucky spasming around him, still making those tiny, wrecked noises as he threads metal fingers into Steve’s hair, pulling him into a harder, hungrier kiss.

It’s a sensory overload of sound and taste and touch in the best possible way, and that’s all it takes for Steve to unfurl and let go, releasing the last of his tremulous grip on self-restraint, shuddering as he comes and groaning into Bucky’s mouth while tiny fireworks burst in his brain, down his spine, through his bloodstream.

He can’t tell how long they stay like that, kisses stalling out until they’re simply breathing against each other’s mouths, but eventually drying sweat and chilled bedroom air have Bucky starting to shiver under him, so Steve carefully eases out and rolls onto his side.

Bucky makes a face somewhere between gratitude and disappointment, immediately hooking an arm and ankle over Steve to prevent him from rolling any further away. “Don’t go too far,” he murmurs, shifting onto his side to brush lips against Steve’s nearest shoulder.

Steve sweeps a hand down the smooth line of his back, feeling Bucky hum and press up tighter against him. “I won’t,” he promises, quiet and serious, meaning those words in more ways than one. It’s a vow he’s more than happy to keep. He’s done fighting himself, done trying to keep his distance, done with self-imposed rules and the dull, ever-present heartache that comes with silent, longful suffering.

“You do realize,” Bucky speaks up a little while later, face tucked into the curve of Steve’s neck and right hand rubbing low, warm circles on his stomach that have Steve torn between wanting to drift off to sleep and press Bucky down onto the mattress all over again, “as soon as Stark finds out about this, he’s never gonna shut up about how his ‘get Captain America laid’ plan actually worked.”

 Steve chuckles, turning his head to nuzzle the soft hair along Bucky’s temple. “Yeah,” he says, lips instinctively curving into a smile, “I think I can live with that.”

 

 


End file.
